Page:Astrophel and other poems (IA astrophelotherpo00swiniala).pdf/83

 A dream, a dream is it all—the season, The sky, the water, the wind, the shore? A day-born dream of divine unreason, A marvel moulded of sleep—no more? For the cloudlike wave that my limbs while cleaving Feel as in slumber beneath them heaving Soothes the sense as to slumber, leaving Sense of nought that was known of yore.

A purer passion, a lordlier leisure, A peace more happy than lives on land, Fulfils with pulse of diviner pleasure The dreaming head and the steering hand. I lean my cheek to the cold grey pillow, The deep soft swell of the full broad billow, And close mine eyes for delight past measure, And wish the wheel of the world would stand.